Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 137: Damian Sinclair Said He Truly Wants to Marry You

Chapter 137: Chapter 137: Damian Sinclair Said He Truly Wants to Marry You

Mr. Ghost’s eyes widened.

Eleanor didn’t want to waste time. Cillian Grant was intentionally going easy on her; she couldn’t just let herself fall apart.

Once he realized she’d guessed his scheme, Cillian Grant would inevitably become wary.

He understood human nature deeply, knew her even better; he was clear she wouldn’t run away for no reason, knowingly stepping into a dead end must mean she had another plan—either she brought a shovel to dig a tunnel, or she was prepared to climb over the wall.

"Just now you signaled me—did something change back home?"

Mr. Ghost looked at her with pity. "You and your adoptive parents—let me keep it brief, I totally don’t get it. Just because of some childish love affair, they want you dead, two lives with one corpse. Makes me think all rich families must have too much money, everyone’s brains are sick. Except you and President Sinclair, you two at least have your heads screwed on straight."

Eleanor’s pupils shrank—a sense of collapse, imagining the worst and now it had really happened. Not quite shocked, but her heart suddenly felt hollow, then dropped hard again.

Cillian Grant was an inescapable Five Finger Mountain. Mr. Grant was a thousand-year-old fox: no matter how benevolent or forgiving he seemed, after floating so long in the business world, feeding off the hearts of men, it was ruthlessness, malice, and decisiveness that made him invincible—his secret to victory.

All his life, he cared most about Mrs. Grant and Grant Group. What Eleanor and Cillian Grant had done, wounded the tip of his heart, shook his foundation.

Now, the more steadfast Cillian became, the less Mr. Grant could reel his son back in. So anyone who triggered the chaos and got out of hand—must never be allowed to stay.

And Mrs. Grant—Eleanor had known from the start that, between Mrs. Grant and Cillian, she herself would be the one chosen to be abandoned, to be disposed of. People’s hearts always tilt to one side. No matter how great a mother’s love, there are always weights and biases.

What’s more, she’d already been cut off from that love long ago; Mrs. Grant abandoning her might not even require a struggle.

"That’s all confirmed? Have the people sent to handle it already arrived?"

Mr. Ghost stared at his toes, glimpsed a cardboard box on the wall behind him out of the corner of his eye. He pulled out a handful of tissues and handed them to Eleanor. "Latest news—this time they really came, new hands landed an hour ago, currently making contact with the hospital. This intel is a goodwill gift from my friend’s big boss. For more details, President Sinclair’s still negotiating."

Eleanor pressed her lips tight, paused stiffly for a few breaths, didn’t take the tissues. "I wasn’t crying."

Mr. Ghost looked up. Her face was bare, her eyes rimmed red, her look restrained—she really hadn’t shed a tear. "Good job, you’re strong."

A forty-something man coaxing his daughter, rough and buzzing, sounded perfunctory but was actually awkward.

Eleanor managed a faint smile, swallowed immediately by a sinking feeling inside. "Does he know I want to escape by dying?"

"He knows. I was about to report it on the whale-watching boat when President Sinclair just happened to contact me." Mr. Ghost took out his phone, meaning to pull up the chat record, but with a few swipes, the screen flashed—Damian Sinclair was calling.

Mr. Ghost glanced at Eleanor, answered the call, and succinctly reported Cillian Grant’s intentions first.

The phone wasn’t on speaker. Whatever Damian Sinclair asked, Mr. Ghost replied a few more words, then handed the phone to Eleanor.

Eleanor took it.

"Eleanor?" Damian Sinclair’s voice spilled through the speaker, tense, exhausted—a kind of muffled heaviness.

Eleanor gripped the phone. "It’s me."

"Sorry. I hesitated before and didn’t make things clear with Mr. Ghost, screwed up everything for you."

Eleanor denied it, "It’s not your fault. I was careless. There’s a tracker in the hairclip, and the people chasing me have guns. Back then, if you’d told Mr. Ghost not to drag himself into this and risk going back home, if something happened, I’d never forgive myself."

Damian Sinclair’s breath hitched, off rhythm. He took a deep breath and forced it down.

"Let’s save right and wrong for later. The situation’s urgent. I just cut a deal with a gang in Froskar. They can help you completely wipe your identity clean; all you need to do is follow Mr. Ghost out, and their people will pick you up. As for any secret tails, their people will handle surveillance and cleanup. They won’t let Cillian Grant find a trace."

"It’s not enough, Damian Sinclair." Eleanor’s voice sounded squeezed out of her throat, stiff and blocked. "Cillian Grant’s been acting very strange ever since he got to Froskar. Just now—"

She looked numb. "He actually said openly he wants to marry me. Whether it’s true or not doesn’t even matter. Now that the child’s exposed, him saying this means he’ll never let me go, never give me my freedom. If he won’t let go, The Grant Family will never spare me. They’ve decided to have me killed. If I don’t die, there’s no escape."

Damian Sinclair fell silent.

Eleanor, "I never wanted to get you involved, but running in circles, I ended up dragging you down anyway. Before, I was entangled with Elaine White—couldn’t cut her off, all mixed up, either my morals were broken or my heart was rotten. Damian Sinclair, I’ve fallen. I’m sorry."

Still silent from Damian Sinclair; the receiver carried the turbulent rush of his breath, urgent, rough.

Like an extreme tidal surge, bottled up, suppressed—once it steadied, his voice came, hoarse and almost inaudible: "Eleanor, you’re too bound by conscience. Our situation doesn’t fit any simple measure of right and wrong. Four years ago—"

He was hesitating.

Eleanor had always thought, all of Cillian Grant’s pressure and threats over these four years were for Phoebe Grant. She loathed Cillian Grant, never trusted any promise from him.

To mention marrying her—his tone couldn’t hide sarcasm, laughable, like the emperor’s new clothes, a ridiculous joke everyone saw through.

If he revealed it now, that Cillian’s goal all along was her, then how was Eleanor meant to process that?

"What happened four years ago?" Eleanor pressed.

"Four years ago, Cillian Grant split us up—not for Phoebe Grant," Damian Sinclair’s voice stuttered. "It was for you. I wanted to keep this from you, but you deserve honesty. Eleanor, he really does want to marry you. That’s why he severed your ties with The Grant Family, kicked you out, erased your surname."

Eleanor’s world spun wildly for a second; she staggered and leaned against the wall, everything feeling absurd and bizarre, as if reality itself had changed shape.

She didn’t believe it.

She didn’t believe Cillian Grant did it to marry her.

If that were true, what were these four years of oppression for?

Marry her to what?

A docile, tamed dog? Someone he’d known since childhood, secrets all laid bare.

Especially since she was stubborn and so hard to tame.

The process of breaking her in must be thrilling for him.

Perfect for his need to control.

Eleanor waved off Mr. Ghost’s attempt to help her, trembling, bracing against the wall to stand up straight.

Mr. Ghost hovered a protective arm, bent to retrieve her phone from the floor.

Damian Sinclair’s voice came raw through the speaker, anxious, worried, full of regret. "Eleanor, I shouldn’t have told you all this now."

He regretted it.

Maybe Cillian Grant was right—he couldn’t face the fury in Eleanor’s eyes after going against her wishes, so he hid behind the guise of respect.

Some secrets—a kindness, indispensable—can shield the ones you care about from harm, spare them pain.

"You should have." Eleanor replied firmly.

"What sets people apart from lambs is that people choose the pain of being awake, while lambs can only be confused to the point of numbness. Damian Sinclair, you’ve treated me as a person, thank you for not presuming to ’protect’ me, for not keeping me caged like a lamb."